


No Quick-Fix for the Common Cold

by PhoenixFire_theWizardGoddess



Category: Team Fortress 2
Genre: Familial Team Dynamic, Gen, Minor chapter title puns, Post Comic #5, Scout is Unwell & Medic just wants to help, Sickfic, TF2Jam Winter 2017, Team resentment over betrayal, Team trying to live together again, go figure, hilarious chaos, it is sweltering in Aus tho
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-02-13
Updated: 2017-04-03
Packaged: 2018-09-24 01:13:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 19,782
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9693383
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PhoenixFire_theWizardGoddess/pseuds/PhoenixFire_theWizardGoddess
Summary: [Post TF2 Comic #5] When the mercenaries return back from Smissmas holiday break, Scout arrives with a rather virulent cold and refuses to admit it. Medic, who is still walking on eggshells after his 'betrayal' of the team, is desperately trying to help despite the tension it invokes. He will do anything to regain their trust.Perhaps everyone learns a little along the way.





	1. Deck the Halls, Interrogate the Smissletoe

**Author's Note:**

> Entry for the TF2Jam Winter 2017. This was vaguely written during a massive summer heatwave in Australia, of 40-50 degree temps (Celsius); which makes it ironic.
> 
> Written based on the premise that Issue #6 never happened, because this idea was inspired by resolving the comics before that.

Each and every mercenary, RED or BLU, had signed an ironclad contract before commencing their indefinite period of service at Fortress Industries. Each sheaf of paper was exceedingly long, riddled with fine print, and had contingencies for  _ every _ situation; and they did mean EVERY situation. From everyday battle procedures and expectations; through to clauses concerning unanticipated, supernatural, or permanently-fatal events. It also guaranteed specific wages, terms of activating emergency leave, and annual holiday allocations.

 

Given the diversity of the gathered personnel, it was fair to say that only holidays of significant religious or international importance were granted to the teams, via their generally tight-fisted employers. As such, many American-based holidays, such as the fourth of july and thanksgiving, tended to be celebrated on base with teammates… rather than with family or non-mercenary friends. 

 

Not that all the men, or Pyro, had the option to take advantage of permitted leave time. At the most, allocated holiday periods provided  _ exactly _ one week of leave. Meaning, in layman’s terms, that a team member had to make it from base, to their designated and pre-approved location, then back again... all within the space of seven days. While some could catch flights or trains to their destinations within a reasonable amount of time, to ensure festivities with family and friends alike, many international mercenaries could not.

 

There were many reasons, of course. Heavy was unable to return to see his family without significant travel time and infiltration techniques being required; as he was still a wanted man, for escaping the Gulags. Likewise, Medic was entirely disinclined to return to Germany during holidays; and if questioned he would respond that there was no one waiting at home for him, save perhaps the authorities, who took a dim view of his medical methods of revenge against former oppressors. 

 

Engineer often took Pyro home with him, for the holidays; he and the firebug had a good rapport going on, and it seemed the arsonist behaved well enough around the Texan’s family to be allowed to stay. Mask and suit on, as always. Otherwise they might have had to stay on base with the others; as, like Soldier, they did not technically have anywhere else to go, or anyone waiting for them. As it stood, Engineer was still working on trying to get the violently american military man to come and stay at his ranch, during the holiday season; because staying on base all the time had to get boring. 

 

Demoman tended to aim to go home for the longer holiday periods; otherwise the trip simply wasn’t worth it. Sometimes he’d drag one of the others along, and they’d come back talking about whatever insane adventure they’d been on. More than once, they’d returned to base battered, bruised and sporting some evidence of a supernatural battle. More recently, his favoured companion was Sniper; whom the Scotsman knew for a fact, had neither home nor kin, and was in sore need of a change of scenery given everything that had happened in the last little while.

 

Scout, on the other hand, was almost always off like a shot whenever a holiday arose. The kid of the group had his mother, seven older brothers, six sisters-in-law, one older brother’s  _ ‘live-in-not-boyfriend _ ’, and a truly obscene amount of nieces and nephews to go see. Even the fact that Spy periodically turned up and interjected himself into the scenario of organised entropy, often stealing the majority of Scout’s mother’s attention, was not enough to dampen the runner’s spirits in relation to festivities and familial interactions. 

He’d rush off for the earliest flight available, and explode back onto base a hair’s breadth before midnight on the last day; gushing about everyone at home, and showering the rest of the mercenaries in candid polaroid pictures whether they wanted to see them or not. 

All the travelling involved never seemed to dampen his enjoyment of the situation; and he’d remain highly energised for the foreseeable future, which tended to turn the tide of battles in their favour. 

Even if it made mornings far more unbearable for their night-owl inclined mercenary members.  _ No one _ wants to be the target of that much  _ perky _ before they’ve had their coffee of a morning; least of all Sniper, who often bore the brunt of it, given his ability to make noncommittal noises of vague affirmation in all the right moments whether he was listening to the verbal deluge or not.

 

Still, it was an anticipated event. Something familiar you could set your Mann Co. watch by. 

 

~)0(~

  
  


This year, however, when Smissmas had rolled around; everything had been different.

The members of RED had only just been  _ officially _ rehired by Fortress Industries after… all that Australium nonsense, just a few weeks before Thanksgiving; which meant they’d all spent the holiday together, slightly awkwardly trying to slip back into the familiar rhythms of camaraderie and cohabitation. Which had not been quite as easy as anticipated. 

It wasn’t the slightly-singed turkey dinner that did it, however; but through the intervention of the  _ perpetually-jovial-or-no-god-will-save-you _ Engineer, something close to cohesion was beginning to gel the RED team back together.

 

Though everything was still a bit awkward between them all; just as it had been back when being a team of mercenary roommates was new, unfamiliar and untested. It seemed so long ago, and yet here they were again. 

Where there was once a pattern of behaviours that melded together and let each mercenary live their eccentricities in harmony with other team members; there was now a vague entropy, with clashes and conflicts caused by the returning REDs all trying to readapt to base life. Although many were still stuck in the behaviours they’d developed when away. Not all of them particularly pleasant to bear witness to, either. 

 

Sniper kept accidentally sleeping half the day, due predominantly to the time differential between hemispheres, and then trying to shower at the time Spy usually claimed the bathroom; resulting in a loud altercation  _ every single morning at 4am _ . Soldier, on the other hand, was back to his five am wake-up calls and drills; much to everyone’s frustrations. Engineer would spend all night awake, clanking away at some invention or other, completely forgetting he wasn’t in his own sound-proofed lab at home; and often got quite riled up when confronted about it by the sleep-deprived mercenaries. He tended to back down if you produced a sleepy Pyro or Scout, who tended to have that air of sad vulnerability about them when they were overtired. The other mercenaries found it rather adorable, in all honesty; but they valued their lives enough not to mention it. 

 

Heavy wasn’t talking much anymore, trodding about stoically as if having such small amenities once more was entirely beneath him after the robust, mann-sized utilities of his homeland. Similarly abnormal was the manner in which Medic was uncharacteristically isolating himself from the others. Not a single word of future experiments, or mandatory physicals, had passed the man’s lips in casual conversation or during dinner conversations. In fact, he barely deigned to be present. 

 

Something was wrong between the pair, but no one else knew quite how to come at the situation tactfully; without being shot down before they’d uttered the first syllable. So far, the unspoken majority felt that Spy would eventually get around to dealing with it eloquently, or through blackmail… whatever worked. 

 

Pyro was turning everything and anything they could get their hands on, into glorious flames. Usually at some absurd time of day or night, when someone would have to drop everything to find an extinguisher in time. The scent of charred surfaces and fabrics seemed to permeate the base; and you never knew when you’d roll over and wake up to that eerie gas mask just staring at you, silently. 

It had taken ages for them to get used to Pyro seeking someone out for comfort, late at night, before; and now it was almost impossible, given the six months wherein none of them had had such a concerning nocturnal visitor. The biggest concern was not actually waking up when Pyro sought you out… as the arsonist tended to try to get your attention by setting sheets aflame.  It was causing some tension in the ranks; when what little sleep they could grab, was ended by the crackle and pop of your uvet going up in smoke. 

  
  


In fact, the only two that seemed closest to normal functioning, bar the occasional sleep deprivation, were the Demoman and Scout. 

The former was not drinking, and actually spent significant time in the training rooms trying to work himself out of the despondent complacency he’d developed at home; while jobless and facing the perpetual scorn of his mother. It had not been easy.

Demo was the one who tried to keep the peace while the transition was ongoing. Perhaps trying a little too hard, as he’d often end up exhausted after defusing small spats and squabbles all day long. Honestly, the only major frustration for many of the other mercenaries, was that the man tended to hog the television most nights; although it wasn’t Demo’s fault that his favourite serial just so happened to clash with the Star Trek schedule. 

After much debate, RED decided that they would simply have to buy a second television next time someone went into town. 

 

On the other hand, Scout, having spent far too much time in an enclosed cell with Spy, had taken to expressing his newfound freedom in the only way that could possibly piss off the entire team simultaneously… leaving his possessions haphazardly all over the RED complex. Certainly, that was annoying; but most managed to rein in the impulse to throttle the fast-talking, Bonk!-swilling runner, because not a single other man could fault the kid. 

They could, however, get annoyed when the Bostonian’s insomnia saw the brat practicing his baseball swing at two in the morning; when all else were abed and trying hard to catch some shuteye. He could usually be dealt with easily enough; a pan of warm milk should do it, but if that fails… there’s always the pan itself, as Spy had taken to subtly threatening. 

Scout and Spy tended to make certain they were as far from one another as possible, and it suited everyone rather well. However, when they met up or came to verbal blows over a disagreement… it was rather explosive. No real change there. 

  
  


Of course, people still clashed over common tasks, like whose turn it was to cook a meal or do the laundry. Who was responsible for the care and feeding of the homeless warlock in their dumpster, which teammates were on raccoon-sitting duty, who should have vacuumed the loungeroom for stray bullet shells, which person was responsible for helping Medic hose down his experiment room, and so on. Some were resolved quickly, but other little tasks had caused minor wars as most mercenaries tried to avoid the responsibilities being handed out. 

In short, the return had not been easy. 

Small concessions and agreements tended to be made in order to facilitate some miniscule degree of harmonious functionality, as they all readjusted to a formerly familiar situation. Rosters were drawn up, chores and incentives doled out generously; with punishments sparingly provided and enforced only upon repeat offenders, and the like.

 

Slowly, things had begun to return to an even keel. 

 

Thanksgiving had been a pivotal turning point for them all, as a team; as the mercenaries had finally had a chance to assist in the preparation of a meal, and relax as they enjoyed it. No pressure, no expectations, just dinner in the company of your coworkers-slash-roommates; a family of murderers all carving the same turkey, and telling bad jokes, until everyone was too stuffed to even leave the table. There were some fantastic candid pictures of the event that Spy was refusing to give up, so Pyro could burn them… in the name of dignity.

  
  


Such cohesion, brought on by the holiday spirit of ‘togetherness’ and ‘family’ and all things equally saccharine, had really helped to settle things down. Which was the main reason as to why there had been such significant hesitation in many a member, not a month later, when it came to the concept of travelling home for the upcoming Smissmas holiday. Battles had yet to resume, as Miss Pauling was still trying to track down a few elusive members of BLU team; but at the very least, the REDs had become a more formidable group in their absence. 

 

For many REDs, leaving to see family when those left behind on base could not, or had no one they could visit with, just felt plain wrong… after all the team-building they’d done in the last little while.

 

Those who usually remained on base took to arguing that it was fine for their teammates to leave; would not their families miss them otherwise? It was not as if those who remained would be alone, after all. Besides, they could revive a few secretive festive activities that the REDs had created in years past, for those who stayed on-base. 

Still, Engineer, Demo and Scout hesitated. Forcing the others to raise the stakes from calm reassurance, to cajoling, through blatant arguments, and then onto low-level threats; just to get the men to realise they were not breaking up the team, by taking a trip home to see their families. 

 

That settled, plans were made in rather rapid succession afterwards. Engineer whisked the Pyro off to Bee Cave, Demo had plane tickets for Sniper and himself within the hour, and Scout had spent more than half his allotted packing time… pacing about trying to think of a good excuse for where he’d been the last six months. After all, he’d promised his Ma he’d  come straight home after the teams disbanded, and only _ just  _ sent word that they’d all been rehired by their original firm. There was a significant amount of time unaccounted for that she would definitely demand an explanation for; legal adult, or no.

It was a tad unusual, given his normal method of egress for the holidays; but then, it had been quite the odd year, for all of them. Heavy had had to literally carry the rambling runner out, and toss both batter and bag into the awaiting taxi; before Scout talked himself out of going for the third time in the last fifteen minutes. The Russian gave a cursory wave and trudged inside, as Scout’s journey home began.

 

Those who remained by choice, necessity or practicality, began to deck the base in familiar accoutrements. Unearthing ornaments and aged alcohols, records and recipe books from dusty storage boxes buried in the furthest depths of Engineer’s workshop; beginning the ritualistic transition of the base, from everyday accommodation to holiday home. 

 

~)0(~

 

Twas the day after Smissmas, and all through the base, there were grenades used as baubles and so too, cans of mace. Streamers were everywhere, mercenaries were stuffed full, and those who were awake did not care to think on how midnight signalled the end of the holiday period for them. Those who remained were content that their Smissmas-on-base festivities had been recreated successfully this year around; even if it could have been slightly more lively, had more mercenaries stayed. 

 

Of course, that did not mean the the returning were greeted with any less frivolity and delight, than usual. 

First to arrive, obscenely early from the perspectives of the partiers, was REDs’ resident arsonist and inventor duo; fresh from Bee Cave, and exceptionally chipper. They were immediately forgiven for the somewhat-loud intrusion when it was revealed that the Engineer had brought several homebaked items to share. Equally as bright from their holiday adventure, the Pyro was excitedly mumbling a story at whichever teammate would listen; something about a new flamethrower designed by Engineer’s daughter, it seems. BLU Spy was in for a horrifying treat when battle recommenced. 

 

Demo, on the other hand, strode in mid-afternoon with a crate filled to the brim with various clinking glass bottles; making a discordant cacophony of sound with the Scotsman’s every movement. He was beaming widely as Sniper slouched in behind him, the head of some paranormal creature dangling from a hand; and a well-utilised bottle from the other. 

The New Zealander was laughing almost as hard as Demo, as they explained how they’d tracked down the Yowie through several swamps and eventually cornered the bugger in an abandoned playground. Thing was, the way Demo told it, the ruddy thing had given them the right runaround; utilising the equipment and trying to escape in zany, bordering on ridiculous, ways. Apparently, the Scotsman had pictures… which Sniper immediately confiscated, thus making them all the more desireable to the remainder of their base-bound teammates. 

 

After the initial uproar of reintegration, intoxication, and subsequent retellings of the most interesting tidbits from their vacations; everyone seemed to settle down once more, shifting back into everyday mode. As per the roster, Heavy went to begin dinner preparations; and those who had just returned decided to use the lull to put their things away, as the others lounged about on various soft surfaces. Not yet ready to deal with full-on reality just yet, still somewhat entrenched in their post-Smissmas feast food comas.

By the time the sky was dark enough for a blanket of stars to shine through, the smell of something meaty and well-spiced was winding its way through the base and enticing many a hungry mercenary to congregate in the dining area. Though, the Russian warned, it may take a while longer to roast their evening meal to perfection. No one argued with the man, because he was always right when it came to cooking meat; and knew, intrinsically, just the right way roast things, to send the team into a slavering frenzy of rumbling stomachs at even the slightest whiff. 

 

No one minded that dinner would be a while off yet, not overmuch anyway. 

In fact, in the interim, eyes began to glance curiously towards the singular clock in the room, and talk turned to when their last member would return to the fold. Which swiftly devolved into bets being laid, as  per usual, on exactly how close to midnight the errant Scout would arrive back on base. Previous years had seen him race in with mere seconds to spare; and others, with more than four or five minutes. It was always an interesting thing to wager on.

 

However, all thoughts of the annual gamble faded as delicious fare was placed upon the table before them; and those present took the opportunity to compliment Heavy on the meal, some more emphatically than perhaps was necessary. Though he seemed to enjoy all praise provided on his hard work. Indeed, rarely did the Russian cook such grand fare given how limited their evenings often were, but when he did... it was always a dish that the mercenaries would recall with fondness for years to come.

 

So enthralled by this feast were the men and Pyro of RED, that most present at the table almost entirely missed the realisation that they had all lost their bets in one fell swoop. Not but a few moments to eight o’clock in the evening, who should trudge uncharacteristically quietly past the dining room, but the Scout?

His footsteps barely made a sound, expression dazed and skin pale; Demo would have thought him a figment of his normally over-intoxicated imagination, had Sniper not elbowed him in the side and asked if he’d seen the kid too. 

 

There was no verbal explosion, or torrent of photographs, or… well, anything.

Scout didn’t even seem to register the room full of people who were all slowly turning to stare at him. At least, until someone called out his class-name, startling the runner so badly he actually dropped his bag.

 

“Ye alright, laddie?” Demo broached, gently.

 

“Y-yeah, I’m fine.” comes the stuttered response, not allaying fears whatsoever.

 

The Scot shares a knowing glance with Engie, somewhat amused but mostly concerned, before trying again. “Are ye sure? Cause, no offence, boyo, but ye look like Death herself decided to half-ass the job and come back for the rest of ye later.”

 

He’s vaguely waved off by a shaky bandaged hand, as Scout mutters, “Long flight, s’all, Cyclops.”

 

Seeing the topic is closed for now, the demolitions expert switches tact. “Well then boyo, how about ye come in here and tell us all about ye trip back to bonny old Boston. Everything okay at home?” 

 

Scout snorts, winces, and lets out a wheezy chuckle as he hesitates in the doorway for a long moment. “Oh, yeah, sure. Ma weren’t happy about the whole ‘jail thing’, but I told her Spy was gonna explain next time they were together, yeah? So that’s fine…”

He trails off, blinking rapidly as if to retain focus on the mercenaries before him. “Uh… seriously, it was a long flight... and I think I’m gonna go ta bed. See ya in the mornin’ or something.”

  
  


Now that WAS unusual. The Scout they all knew, and occasionally thought about tossing off a cliff for a moment’s peace, would normally offer at least a more elaborate reason why he wasn’t up to regaling them with tales of his holiday trials and  _ travel-bulations _ . A word the runner had studiously attempted to argue, rather unsuccessfully, was ‘a real word’ and ‘not something he made up’, with various RED members over the years. 

He was a frustration and a delight, for the mercenaries to whom English was a second, third or fourth language; although none quite forgave the speedster for teaching Heavy ‘beach-slang’ back when the team had first formed. It was one thing to hear Scout say something odd in praise or condemnation; and quite another for the mountainous Russian to say, in his booming voice, that the pasta Engie had cooked was ‘totally tubular’. 

 

Indeed, his antics never really went unnoticed. In many cases, they were anticipated, and certain people on the base had perfected expressions of shock for when they ran into whatever blatantly obvious prank or surprise party had been set-up for them. It made many uncomfortable to see the high-energy murder child of the team so… lackluster, deflated, vulnerable. 

 

Barely had the runner’s quiet footsteps receded down the corridor to the team quarters, when the quiet murmuring began. Eyes that normally studiously avoided the German, outside holiday festivities when all was forgiven that is, all turned to look pointedly at Medic. He’d already laid down his cutlery, frowning after the runner, as if trying to diagnose him from his place at the table.   
  


“You are all terrible at subtlety,” he jests, rising from his seat. No one laughs, he hasn't earned that degree of trust back, just yet. He raises an eyebrow. “Do I need a chaperone with me to safeguard zhe junge?”

 

The Russian seated to the physician’s left scowls, waving a hand dismissively without making eye contact. “Nyet, just go.”

 

“As you wish, Herr Heavy.” Medic sighs, abandoning his delectable dinner in favour of chasing down his most reluctant of patients. So much for the lingering Smissmas spirit of camaraderie. 

 

~)0(~

 

Everything is as before. In namesake, at least.   
Corridors still the same shades of red and grey-coated metal that wended their way about the small home base. Everything new, pristine, despite months of living here. It was almost a new record for the mercenaries. The kitchen had only been set on fire twice since their return, and nothing had taken on a worn look yet; so different to what had been here before.

 

Sometimes, you could catch someone looking over a wall where a scorch mark had been, or quietly trailing fingers over the unmarred surface of a piece of furniture and wonder what happened to the piece with the battle scars they had all come to know intimately over the years. Not that they were not grateful for the refurbishment, it was simply… that memories persisted, when the physical had departed. Such was the human condition, after all. 

 

Memories… of a time now past, when they were a true team. 

 

Quietly, Medic longs for how simple things had been before as he strides past new-old features towards his goal. Oh, how easily his teammates had finally seen past the frightening surgeon and his bonesaw, once they realised that that was not the be-all and end-all of the German’s personality. 

They had laughed at his jokes, once. Raucous booming guffaws intermingled with higher-pitched giggles often echoed about the base as Medic had regaled RED with stories of misplacing patient skeletons, nearly-disastrous translation mishaps when he first arrived in America, and the time he had trained Archimedes to ‘divebomb’ someone whenever Medic worked the word ‘sauerkraut’ into a conversation. Better times. 

 

Maybe, one day, they would do so again. Though his interests ran sometimes into the more obscene, especially in relation to experimentation, Medic was not naturally a terrible person. He longed for human contact, validation and the bond that only a close-knit unit can provide. And he knew when his actions had strayed too far for immediate forgiveness. 

 

Medic knew the shame and self-loathing intimately; always somehow aware of the sudden trembling in his stomach, the nervousness that infused his every fibre when around his former… well, family. Always aware that it was his own choices that had wrought such a downfall upon his own head.

Certainly, he could justify his actions. Where else was he to go when the entire project shut down so swiftly, with only a few days to make alternate arrangements? 

He held no external bonds with anyone; be they biological, legal or occupational. Finding somewhere to stay as the base was shut for good had not been as fruitful as he had hoped; though why he had not turned to the others for assistance in these matters, even the physician could not say outright. Pride, most likely. 

 

Medic was a proud man, and it was definitely something that had seen him caught fast in his own web in the past. It was most likely the driving factor as to why the whole situation had gone sour so fast; how he had betrayed them all so readily, willingly, even though his only reward was contempt. And several baboon uteruses. But predominantly contempt. 

 

Although, perhaps the main reasons he so readily leapt at the chance to join a team of grizzled old mercenaries, when a mysterious phone call came in the dead of night to offer him the position of medical officer, was the desperate need to continue to belong to something. Certainly such subterfuge to contract his services had seemed rather strange, but then… what was normal, in their line of work?

 

Still, every action has an equal and opposite reaction; such is the law of the universe. This time the consequences were proving harder to bear, than anything that had come before; indeed, Medic had mused on it frequently, and decided that he must simply be getting sentimental in his old age. 

That his team, this collection of paid murderers from all about the globe, no longer felt they could confide in him? It hurt. An almost physical ache, remorse and sorrow intertwined, sitting more heavily in his chest than the uber-implant ever could. 

 

Trust was such an important, yet fragile, thing. To have it was to hold great power; but to lose it, was utterly devastating to everyone involved. It took great time and sacrifice to rekindle shattered confidence in another, and even more to piece back together any relationship that was built upon it. But  if nothing else, Medic was a patient man; and he would glue the shards back together no matter how many lifetimes it took. 

 

And perhaps... this small task of helping their youngest in his time of need, would certainly have some sway on the rest of the team’s opinions,  _ ja _ ?

 

Catching himself, Medic shakes his head vigorously, sneering at the thought. How had it come to this? Thinking of using his most basic professional abilities to curry favour with the other mass-murderers on his team? The men, and Pyro, people whom he had come to trust above all else… and who no longer thought him worthy after his… defection?

 

What would they say if they realised where his mind went, when they asked him to provide aid to the ill? Such selfish thoughts, from the health care professional, whose very profession required a selfless attitude and steady hands, above all else.

  
  


Medic sighs, glasses skewing as he rubs at tired eyes. Everything had been going so well, he thought… the Smissmas festivities were good, and no one had excluded him… 

Betrayal does not have a sell-by date, however, and there is a chance that it shall never be wiped clean; no matter the fact he had single-handedly conquered death and brought Sniper back from the brink. He had sided with their enemies, and smiled as the Kiwi had been shot. 

 

_ That _ was the image they retained. 

His delighted grin, and Sniper bleeding to death in waist-high sea water, as a cave crashed down around them.

  
  


So mired in his thoughts, Medic failed to notice that he had arrived at his intended destination.

The Medic symbol glared back almost accusingly, upon the door. One which he had most definitely closed earlier, and now stood slightly ajar, with seemingly little explanation other than an unintended guest. Of course, Spy had yet to show himself from wherever he was skulking on base; most likely nursing his hangover with equally-unhealthy cigarettes and whatever food the man had secreted away in that smoking room’s fridge. 

 

Sighing, Medic decides he just doesn’t care either way, and steps inside. Somewhere in here was the old medical bag he had carried about with him during fieldwork exercises, and… well, the war. One could not go into battle unprepared to deal with injuries, illnesses and infections.

To be perfectly honest, he wasn’t entirely sure where he had stashed it. Seeing as how the infirmary was always well-stocked, his weapons were separate from his usual medical fare, and the majority of injuries could be cured utilising the various mediguns available. In fact, Medic had not had to use his more common medical instruments in such a long time, that clearly they’d been misplaced. 

 

He could, of course, head to the infirmary for an additional set… but it was so very far away, and the German was tired. Frustrated at the fruitless search, Medic huffs and resists the urge to stomp his foot like a  _ kind _ would under the circumstances; but only just. 

Instead, he startles at the quiet cough somewhere in the general vicinity of his wardrobe, as a bag clunks metallically at his feet. The instruments should not be too disturbed by the rough landing, but he feared for the sanctity of his glass beakers. 

However, Medic brightens immediately at the sudden appearance of the searched-for red-leather bag. “Herr Spy, I vould kiss you if I could find you!” 

 

There is a faint sound of amusement. “Zen I do believe I will stay ‘idden for ze time being, Docteur. In anycase, I believe you ‘ave a patient in need of seeing to.”

 

The air is thick for a moment, with one party daring the other to question whether perhaps their interesting in seeing Scout attended to was of a less altruistic, and more paternal nature. But it passes. A fleeting, unvoiced thought, and both parties feel the tension drain. 

 

Neither say anything further as Medic scoops up the bag in preparation to leave, and the invisible espionage agent continues to fill the Doctor’s room with the vague scent of clove cigarettes. As he exits, Medic makes certain the door is slightly ajar, to the exact degree it had been when he first entered… an action to which the response could be clearly heard in the  faint laughter issuing forth from the seemingly-empty room. 

 

~)0(~


	2. Three Strikes & You’re Scout

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The confrontation between Doctor & Reluctant Patient.

Like many things on the base that had failed to change after the refurbishment, it started with a fight. 

 

“Herr Scout,” came a tone that was clearly vibrating on the edge of losing its temper completely,  “ _ bitte _ , grant me entry so that I may examine you more completely. Even from across zhe room I can tell you have clearly contracted some form of viral infection, but I cannot determine what kind, or how to treat it, unless you cooperate.”

 

He had been there some time already, trying to quietly placate and cajole, only to receive outright frustrated hostility in response. Small wonder the German had held his tongue in check so long. 

 

His patient was being quite stubborn, but that was to be expected, really. 

Scout’s mood was dour, as exhaustion battled his aching body over whether it would allow him a moment’s rest. The runner had been trapped in this nightmarish cycle the entire trip home, perpetually having to force himself to stay awake throughout the seemingly never-ending blur of plane, train and taxi rides; and now that the chance to rest had finally, blessedly, come upon him… the batter remained frustratedly awake. To put it lightly, Scout was utterly despondent at this point;  for he wanted nothing more than to sleep this malady away, and yet the simple of act of rest refused to let him. 

 

To make matters far, far worse…  _ just  _ when the runner had thought he might finally fall into the welcoming nothingness of unconsciousness he’d been teetering on the verge of for what felt like an eternity… the Doc had turned up at his door, knocking up a storm. Still, that ain’t no cause to be rude; Ma would tan his hide, legal adult or no, if he said any of the spiteful phrases that shot to mind at the intrusion. 

He wiggled fitfully, as his return to awareness now heralded the realisation that his former ‘comfortable position’ was now nothing but a conglomeration of aching joints and rumpled bedcovers that felt like brands where they pressed against bare skin. A none-too-subtly cleared throat at the door drew the runner’s flagging attention back to the fact he had a guest that needed dismissing, as politely as he could under the circumstances.

 

Scout chokes on the first word as it fights past a red-raw throat. “ _ Ah-... I-...’mfine doc, y’can g’way. _ ”  It was not as convincing as he’d hoped.

 

“Ah yes, und  _ schwein _ can fly like Archimedes, little  _ Hase _ .” Medic rolls his eyes, appearing nonchalant as he finally pushes all pretence aside and opens the door fully, to step inside. “You are clearly quite unvell, Scout, und as I am your primary physician, I ask zhat you allow me to assist you if at all possible.”

 

The placation falls flat on its face, as two glassy blue eyes peer at the doctor, from under a pillow that the runner seemed to be of two minds about hugging. Medic’s clinical gaze observes, as the other mercenary fumbles for a good retort; noting the pale, clammy skin, the sweat-soaked red shirt that heaved with moderately laboured breaths, and what he assumed was once a made bed. Sheets were untucked and strewn all over, denoting to the trained eye that Scout was clearly running some sort of temperature and could not regulate the intense sensations of hot and cold that often accompanied virulent infections such as common colds.

 

He waits.

 

“ _ N… Not sick _ !” Scout finally whines breathlessly. His tone seemed higher than usual, and with a slight crackle to it that has Medic donning his stethoscope in concern. The runner almost startles back as the older man moves towards him, and the doctor pauses to consider how best to approach his flighty patient. So stubborn and impulsive, the youth of today!

 

Medic settles for utilising humour to diffuse the situation. “Ah yes, Herr Scout, your vise vords have helped me to see zhat all my extensive years of medical training und experience are simply wasted time.  _ Clearly _ zhey have failed me, if my noticing zhat you look like utter  _ scheisse _ und most likely feeling far vorse, are entirely incorrect as you are, as you claim, ‘not sick’.” 

 

He spoke in a calm, gentle tone learned long ago during a mandatory practicum. It tended to have an almost hypnotic effect on some patients; and a sick Scout was no exception, it appeared. The younger man did not object further, nor react outright, as Medic drew closer and closer. Carefully, the German physician stretched out a hand to press against the clammy forehead, in an attempt to gain a rudimentary reading of the temperature the speedster was running... as he felt a thermometer might push the boundaries too far for the moment.

 

“It is alright,  _ hase _ . Zhe team… ve are all concerned about you, Scout.  _ Bitte _ , allow me to help yo-...” his calm reassurance is cut off by incredulous, if painfully strained, laughter whispering through the room. Somehow it is deafening to the doctor, sending chills up his spine.

 

“YOU?” Scout explodes to the best of his ability, and Medic jerks back. The runner’s eyes may not be quite focused; but his tone was sharp and bitter, even over the raw rasp of every syllable and breath. “Hah, don’t make me laugh doc… ‘cause it hurts like shit when I do. Whaddayou care if I’m not feeling great, huh? Ain’t you the guy who went and sold us out to the bad guys dat crazy-robot-guy hired to fuckin’ kill us? And for what? Didn’t dat team’s Heavy beat the crap outta ya, belittle ya crazy experiments and toss ya aside like an old gym sock?”

 

He paused to heave in air. “G-Great plan there, doc. R-real winner… but see, now ya crawled ya sorry ass back here ta RED base, like we’re all gonna just forget what ya did. The Admin might be happy to let you play god with our lives, but I’m tired of it, and I ain’t willing to play German fuckin’ Roulette with my life over some stupid cold. I…” Scout falters, looking two seconds from falling off the bed. “...’m just not feelin’ great, yeah? Thanks for coming and all but I don’t need no giraffe spleen or whatever weird-ass thing ya got lined up to make me feel better… can ya just go and find ya forgiveness elsewhere, please?”

 

Utterly taken aback, Medic doesn’t even notice when the stethoscope falls from his nerveless fingers to bounce on his chest with a hollow thud. Blood pounds in his ears, and he fights down a sudden wave of nausea accompanying the unanticipated deluge of ill-tidings. Of course they resented his continued position here, and many were overt about such things… but not Scout,  _ never _ Scout. 

The boy had practically adopted them all into various familial roles on day one, and tended to try and swing any situation positively no matter the personal cost; forcing many of the team to re-evaluate their first impressions of the loud-mouthed Bostonian, as nothing more than a brash child with good aim. Although, it had to be noted, that some things did manage to get to the young man; though he rarely ever admitted it.   
A good example had been the unfortunate time that RED had forgotten to attend any of Scout’s four birthday parties the year before; which had mostly been due to a sudden influx of paperwork required by Mann Co. and not, as Scout had assumed, the apathy of the entire team towards him. They’d had to hold two separate surprise parties for him, to snap the young man out of his depressed funk after that. 

 

Still, the fact remained that Scout could find the positive in practically any situation. Twist words to mean a win, even if he was battered to hell and back; because he had an air of naive trust about him that made it difficult to be callous around. The team could get infuriated with his constant chatter, but their admonitions never went too far, lest the mercenary in question risk the emotional backlash of the young man’s devastated expression as they frantically tried to backtrack.  _ Not to mention what Engineer might do to you if he found out you’d upset one of his pseudo-children.  _

 

Indeed, Scout’s voice had been one of the loudest in the argument for Medic’s return; waxing on and on about second chances, family, friendship, and incessantly pestering the doctor to retell the story of how Archimedes had once made Scout a living jack-in-the-box for an hour or so. It was, perhaps, more to get the runner to stop talking… rather than the valid points Scout made, of which there were MANY… that convinced the rest of RED to accept Medic back.

 

Though not all the way back, evidently. No matter, because the moment he noticed this tension, Scout had gone out of his way to physically  _ MAKE _ medic fit back into the team; with forced interaction smoothed over by tidal waves of words, and all awkward situations met with the sudden appearance of Scout about to do something distracting and most likely dangerous. 

_ Twice _ Medic had had to use the medigun to heal the runner’s fractured limbs after he’d tried to double-jump off of something and misjudged the distance, as part of his elaborate distraction routine. The boy had put life and limb on the line to reintegrate Medic back into the fold.

  
  


So, to hear such harboured resentment… from the one person on the team Medic had felt was  _ truly _ on his side… it cut deeply. 

“I-... I-...” The beginning of hot tears pricked the back of his eyes, as Medic fought for control over his emotions, at this… this betrayal, of sorts. His hands shook, so he clenched them; and his jaw also, for good measure. The stirrings of sorrow evaporated into hot, thick rage, that suffused his tone as he spat, “Fine,  _ junge _ . If you vill not accept zhe aid I so freely offer out of compassion, zhen I invite you to suffer on your own.” 

 

With jerky, uncoordinated movements, Scout all but fell off the bed in his attempts to flee the wrathful doctor. Mostly wobbling jerkily backwards, until the wall stopped any further retreat; those glassy eyes were wide, fearful, and locked onto Medic. 

 

But  _ verdammt _ , the physician was not done admonishing yet!

“I could understand if you held zhe whole incident vith dear Archimedes against my person, as it vas quite distressing for you. But in everything else, every other medical situation, I have done nothing zhat did not at least vaguely benefit you in some way, ja? Healed your inexplicable 3am injuries, stopped headaches und hangovers, talked you zhrough nightmares that left you shaken but terrified zhe others vould mock you for it, und not once lectured you on any of zhe damage you have taken vhile trying out an incredibly bad idea or just peacocking for poor Miss Pauling…” Medic was, quite literally, counting off the incidents on his fingers. “Und yet, vith all zhis evidence to zhe contrary, you still deny my vorth as a physician?! Incredible!”

 

His captive audience was sagging against the wall with a fearful expression plastered all over that peaky face. And, although Medic was downright shaking with fury, panting  as he tried to contain it, and utterly ready to send the brat through respawn at any given moment… it was equal money that this would pass, and the tears that had threatened earlier would return. He would not allow such a thing, of course, for he was far too proud to allow his despair to be so publicly known, even if Scout would most likely forget the incident given his level of cognition was currently impaired by illness.

  
  


They stare at one another in silence for a long moment. Or rather, Medic maintains his glare, and Scout tries to maintain the eye contact, despite the way his eyelids kept closing of their own accord, forcing him to jerk awake and somewhat-upright again. 

Medic allows it to persist a few seconds longer, before sagging himself, recognising the futility of the exercise. It is of no benefit to either party to be arguing with a patient who is clearly not in full control of his faculties; even if the spiteful words are nothing but truth. The harsh, cruel truth of how the German had betrayed his team and dared to dream they would forgive him, if only he kissed a few boo-boos and pretended all was well. How foolish could he be?

 

Deflating, Medic allows his posture to relax, so his patient would not perceive him as an active threat any longer. “Come,  _ kind _ , I should not have yelled at you like zhat. It vas unprofessional and inexcusable... your feelings are valid, und I guess I should not have anticipated anything else.”

 

“ _ N-Naw Doc, ‘msorry, didn’t mean ta say that… _ ” Scout mumbles back, quietly. He allows the doctor to take his arm and lead him back to the bed; it is a journey of only a few steps, and yet, feels like a small eternity to make it that far. “ _ Y’doin’ good. Helpin’... yeah? _ ”

 

Medic takes the proffered verbal bandaid, and lets the moments before slide. Words cannot be unsaid, but they can be forgotten until a more convenient time to address them, after all. 

“Indeed,  _ Hase _ . Do you vant to lie down, or perhaps you vould prefer I examine you sitting on zhe edge of zhe bed? It is entirely up to you, und vhat you find most tolerable.”

 

Scout makes a non-committal noise that seems to mean,  _ ‘I would like to stay seated’ _ and makes no move to shift to a more horizontal position. It’s honestly quite the amusing scenario, to say the least; but Medic does not see fit to comment on it, as he flicks open the bag to retrieve a few items. 

“Vhen I ask you to, breathe in und out slowly, _ bitte _ .” Medic informs, raising the stethoscope to press it against the patient’s chest, before frowning at the realisation that a certain sweat-infused garment may muffle some of his readings. “Ah, Herr Scout, vould you be so kind as to remove zhat shirt, or at least lift it up so I can listen to your heartbeat und breathing?”

 

A long groan greets him in response, but Scout slowly moves to comply.    
“Couldn’tcha just… medigun?” he asks disjointedly, staring in bewilderment at the arm now stuck in his sleeve and refusing to come free. 

 

“Ve both know it does not cure ailments of zhis nature, Herr Scout. Some diseases, yes, but in most viral cases zhe medigun fluid can exacerbate und accelerate zhe infection.” Medic answered gently, as if he had not had to have this conversation a dozen times over with every other member of the team anytime someone fell prey to illness, over the years. Which was, surprisingly, not that often when you considered what they did for a living, and the harsh climates to which they were consistently exposed. From dustbowl to coldfront was always a shock to the system; not to mention the time the teams had drunk the tapwater at Hydro, that had been  _ quite _ the medical nightmare.

 

“Aw  _ Doooooooooc… _ ” Scout whined, half-stuck in his shirt, but with enough torso free that Medic could find somewhere to put the stethoscope. 

 

The practitioner gave a small grin in acknowledgement, and amusement. “Shhh,  _ junge _ . Now breathe in… und out. In… und out.  _ Danke _ , very  _ gut _ . Zhere is a concerning crackle, but it may just be due to excess phlegm production, nothing unusual.” 

 

Scout, on his behalf, looked entirely disgusted with the prognosis. “Ewwwww, no, don’t tell me dat, Doc. Sounds like I got slugs or something in my lungs, and dat’s just gross.” 

 

He stifles a laugh, “Ah, your situation is not quite zhat dire, Scout, I assure you. Now do you zhink you can bear a thermometer, or shall I break out zhe one designed for...  _ zhe other end _ ?”

To be fair, Medic was only half-joking, but the horror on Scout’s face said it all. He would hold it under his tongue  _ or die trying _ .

  
  


After a moment, Medic retrieved the glass object and shook it, squinting down at the mercury within in concern. “It appears you have a high-grade fever, Herr Scout, zhat is most unfortunate… how on earth did you manage to contract such an illness? Did you not dress varmly vhile at home?” There was a pause, “ _ Bitte _ , tell me you did not wear your normal attire in such cold veather…”

 

It was a logical assumption, given the dramatic disaster that had been the Scouts’ first match at Snowplow. All that bravado, and not enough layers of clothing to withstand the cold, had seen the runners on both teams quite miserable for several weeks following. 

  
  


“H-huh? Oh, nah d-doc… I mean yeah, but our apartment’s warm, yeah?” Scout answered, distractedly, tugging at the collar of his shirt with increasing urgency. “Think I got this off one’a the kids, though. I mean, there’s so freakin’ many I can barely remember all’a the names most holidays… did I ever tell ya I got a lotta nieces and nephews? Real fucking bizarre. First one was born when I was only ten, so’s I gotta a lot of practice at bein’ the cool uncle scout  _ and- _ ... wait, I was talkin’ ‘bout something else before wasn’t I? Uh… oh, yeah, see I was holding one’a my nieces for the family Smissmas photo,  _ I think she was a Janice? _ , purple-sweater and all… and right after the picture got took…”

 

Medic held back the urge to correct that particular inaccuracy, despite how uncomfortable it made him to hear the language he’d worked so painstakingly to learn… misused.

 

“...she up and sneezes in my face, yeah? Like, brotha it was  _ nasty _ , ‘cause my mouth was open and everything. Ma thought it was hilarious, but my brother and his wife seemed real upset. I didn’t really care, long as I got to wash the snot off, right? ‘Cept looks like I brought it back with me.” Scout continued. “Actually, I think mosta the kids were coming down with somethin’ when I was runnin’ out ta catch the taxi for my flight… oh god, if I get it and none’a the other adults do, they’re gonna make kid jokes all easter vacation long!” The runner frets, voice raspier than before from overuse; it made Medic wince to hear it.

 

Scout’s stories of his household’s holidays always seemed utterly chaotic and delightful, especially to the team members without families they could visit and make their own memories with. Every holiday he’d come back talking about the exciting frustration of finding out that there was a new baby whose name he had to learn; or that his Ma still liked to treat him like the baby no matter what and he sometimes ended up at the kid’s table. He loved to talk on and on about how the veritable army of kids seemed to idolise their uncle Scout as the man who could ‘run real fast and jump super-high like a superhero’; or vent his annoyance that once again he’d presented the idea of colour-coding the children with their parents so he stood a chance of knowing who was who amongst the sea of small humans filling the apartment to bursting… but had been shot down.    
‘ _ One Day… _ ’ he always vowed at the end of any story pertaining to the latter; staring off into the middle distance solemnly, until whichever RED was with him burst out laughing at the melodramatics and ruffled the runner’s hair. 

  
  


“Oh, I sincerely doubt zhey vould do such a zhing, Scout, calm yourself. Did you succeed in getting zhem to colour-code your errant siblings’ offspring zhis year?” he asked lightly, subtly reaching for a tongue depressor, and knowing it was going to be a fight to examine the other’s throat. Scout hated the things almost as much as needles, and that was fair enough; few people liked the implications of potential splinters in the tongue. The runner had once said splinters were nature’s needles, and Medic still hadn’t thought of a good response to that odd statement.

 

“Well, sorta.” came the reply, as Scout tugged slightly more fervently at the collar of his shirt, as though the garment was fighting with him. “Half my siblings did, dat’s where the purple sweater came in… but half didn’t, so it was like organised chaos in a way. Even my brother and his  _ not-boyfriend-even-though-they’re-all-but-frickin’-married _ put their kids in yellow, so I could at least take a wild guess who was who. Oh, and did I tell ya they adopted another little guy dis year? All secret-like about it, too. Wanted to surprise me, ‘cause it turns out we got the same name‘n all.… so that was cool.  _ But I-... _ Uh, listen doc, is it… like, real hot in here all of a sudden?” 

 

Medic attempts to gently restrain the hands plucking at the batter’s shirt. “ _ Nein, kind _ , you are just unvell und your fever is making your body zhink it is both unbearably hot und incredibly cold at different intervals. Perhaps you vould like to shower, und change, before you sleep. It may help a little.” 

He was subtly zeroing in with the tongue depressor, but Scout saw him coming and slapped it away. The clarity of a moment before was fading fast, and Medic could only vaguely wonder how on earth the runner had managed to make it all the way back here to base under the circumstances. 

 

“N-no, please…” Scout stutters, frantic in his efforts to remove the shirt collar and fabric from where it touched his skin. “Don’t touch me, don’t… can’t… don’t wanna be touched, please don’t…” 

The wheezing was exacerbated, and it could not be doing the sore throat any real favours, but Medic could not see a way to assist with direct or indirect physical contact. Which seemed to be what Scout wanted nothing to do with, in this moment of time. 

 

“It is alright, I can help you take zhat off if you vill let me.” soothes the medical man, movements slow and considered as he reaches out, Scout vibrating in place as he tries to hold still and let Medic assist. “Can you tell me vhat zhe problem is? Is the fabric uncomfortable, are you too hot?”

 

“T-too tight, can’t… don’t wanna be touched… feels like ‘m being… neck?” Scout tries to explain, as Medic succeeds in tugging the sweat-drenched shirt off, with some fussing and fretting on Scout’s part. It was then the German realised the sudden absence of Scout’s generally ever-present dogtags.

 

“You feel… as if you are being strangled by zhe shirt?” he attempts to clarify, as his eyes move across the floor and alight upon the missing metallic items, lying dejectedly upon the floor on a snapped chain. “It is alright Scout, zhe shirt und zhe chain are not touching you anymore, has zhat made it better?”

 

“S-Sorta… sorry for y-yellin’n’all… c-can’t… please don’t touch me yet. Still feels like somethin’s there… d-don’t…?” he seemed so puzzled by the concept of a phantom touch, which his mind was perceiving as a threat. Medic sighed, wishing he could just put a hand on the lad’s shoulder and reassure, but knew it could make the situation far worse, under the circumstances.

 

“All is vell, Scout…  _ except you, _ zhat is. Und ve all say zhings ve do not mean vhen under zhe veather,  _ ja _ ? Vhy, last time Heavy vas unvell, he took one look at me approaching vith an ice pack und told me to take my bonesaw und  _ ram it up my-... _ ah, but zhat is not an appropriate conversation to have vith you at zhe moment. I did not take it to heart, mein patient.” Medic responds, fetching out another tongue depressor and laying it on the bedside table, not quite willing to push that just yet. It was a waiting game, as the majority of little diagnostic tools he had required physical touch, and he could see it would not be well tolerated just at the moment. 

  
  


“M-maybe I will h-have that shower then…” Scout suddenly breaks the silence, and stands up far too suddenly, in complete reckless overestimation of his abilities at that moment. Medic, not anticipating the movement at all but recognising the look of bewildered confusion  on the runner’s face as the dizzy spell hits, only just manages to grab the other before Scout hits the floor. 

 

“Impetuous hase,” he chastises, righting the other and dropping him back to the bed. “Vhat vere you zhinking?  _ Sitting _ overexerts you, vhat made you zhink you could make it to zhe bathroom unassisted?!”

Medic wasn’t really angry, more surprised and full of adrenaline, at having to react so swiftly. He was so caught up in the moment, that he didn’t see the fist until it connected with the side of his face, glasses crunching ominously. 

 

“N-No, don’t touch me!” Scout was shouting, and Medic was cursing himself for not paying more attention. Hypersensitivity and fever-based delusions tended to cause people to act out in odd ways. Indeed, he’d once had a patient body-check him during nightly rounds, screaming about getting out of the ‘line of fire’ of invisible martians. It was a story he was certain they still told interns about, when cautioning them to always be aware of your surroundings. 

He could live with it, though… it was only a minor blow, after all. At least Scout hadn’t reverted to-...

 

“ _ D-Don’t touch me… Dontcha dare fuckin’ touch me! If dey tried ta-... tried ta… h-hang me… ya gonna do worse! Crazy-ass doc, d-don’tcha touch me! _ ” he was babbling, clearly not all there right now… and yet, the words hit home again. 

 

Something in Medic snapped. The runner was a broken record, and the physician’s current emotional fragility could only take so many hits in one go before his ability to passively absorb negativity shattered completely. He tried to grapple for any last little fragment of inner calm he possessed, and found nothing but emotionless void. 

His expression closed completely, body language going cold and rigid as he snatches up his instruments and tosses them in the bag without due care. “I have attempted to provide you aid in good faith, as teammates, Herr Scout. But if zhat is how you truly feel, und how you vish to behave… zhen I cannot help you.  _ Bitte _ , feel free to die in your sleep… I have real vork to do, und zhe paperwork for your permanent demise vill not add to it overmuch.”

 

He almost pauses and turns back, standing in the doorway like a statue as he heard the runner call out in a hoarse, desperate whisper,  _ “W-wait… please… please don’t… don’t leave me al-alone… I can’t-...”  _ but he slams the door shut anyway. 

 

Perhaps in an hour he will be calmer, more amenable to receiving aid. That is what Medic told himself as he strode away, with bright hot anger pulsing under his skin, and an angry throb building on the side of his face. Yes, this was not  _ abandonment _ , despite the harsh words, but instead a  _ lesson _ . He repeated it over and over in his head until it almost sounded like the truth, like something he could believe.

 

~)0(~

 

“Say… Doc?” came a voice that startled the Medic out of his thoughts, “Mighty sorry about that pardner, thought ya saw me comin’ there. Anyhow,” continued Engineer, “did ya have a chance ta look in on the kid yet? Ah’m a mite worried about him, boy tends ta go down hard whenever he catches what’s goin’ around, and all.” 

 

“Oh, yes I vas just zhere, Herr Engineer. As far as I can ascertain under… zhe circumstances, Scout has contracted some degree of cold or flu, nothing to be concerned about. Although if you vish to help lower his fever, und can take a punch, I suggest you try to get him in zhe shower… but vithout any interference it should pass on its own.” Medic shrugs, projecting nonchalance. “I see no real reason to intervene at zhe moment, as he is quite delirious und tends to lash out vhen panicked.”

 

The Texan doesn’t comment aloud, but it’s plain to see the amused approval all over his face, as he beholds the angry bruise left by Scout’s flailing fists. He’s clearly of the mind that Medic has somewhat of a good old fashioned kicking coming to him for the whole betrayal situation; but he tips his hat courteously anyway and thanks the doctor.

“Ah’m mighty thankful ya went and checked in on him, Doc, but ah’m of a mind to go look in on him myself. Maybe trick him into having a scrub, like ya said, could do the scrawny mite some good. Ah’ll let ya know if anything changes, alright?”

 

It wasn’t a question. It was a statement.    
If something went wrong with Scout, Engineer would either hunt the doctor down personally, or he’d send someone else to drag Medic wherever he needed to be to treat the runner, no matter the hour of day or night.

Wisely, Medic nodded in acquiescence and let the moment pass, before adding, “Herr Engineer, please remember to be vigilant und careful vith Scout, as I have said he is somewhat delirious vhich makes telling friend and foe apart beyond him.” Medic hesitates for a second before adding something that did not sit right with him, from the exchange with Scout. “He also spoke of… feeling strangled, like being hung, although I do not understand vhat he is referencing vhatsoever.”

 

Engie seems a tad perplexed as well. “...me neither Doc, ah’ll check in with the others and see if they got anything. Maybe he just dreamt it up, kid’s got a hell of an imagination, when he can focus, after all… ya should see his art. But here I am chatterin’ on and it’s late, ya should go rest up now, ah’ll call if somethin’ changes. ’Night, Sawbones.”

 

Medic tilts his head, extending the same familiar courtesy, without any of the normal sentiment; and turns on his heel, striding off to his own room. 

It would be a long night indeed.

  
  
~)0(~


	3. Getting Uber Your Differences

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things get steadily worse, because the universe just seems to have it in for the mercenaries.

The world burns as if Pyro had turned their flamethrower on it, until it’s almost unbearable; then, without any warning whatsoever, turns icier than Spy’s heart.

 

Someone’s talking at him, he thinks, but he can’t be quite certain. Sounds like they’re asking… something he can’t seem to make out; the words, the sounds… they don’t make any kinda sense? 

Failing to understand who or what is being spoken just heightens the sense that something is so very, incredibly wrong… like he was broken, or the world was. And just when he thinks he’s maybe grasped onto a familiar syllable or tone, the voices start again with new phrases that sound alien in origin.

 

He doesn’t know what they want…

 

What do they  _ want _ ?

 

He can’t tell these mystery beings he doesn’t understand what they’re trying to communicate, however. All chance to do so ceased what had to have been eons ago; his throat felt as if all of Dustbowl was trapped in there. Searing heat and burning sand that had never known rain, rubbing everything red-raw, eroding his voice all but completely. 

Everything is… everything is nothing more than impressions and ideas. Shades of hot and cold that flush through his body, head to toe; wracking his overtired frame with shudders that make his joints ache. It feels... like the two teams are facing off against one another, and his body is the battleground; the clashing roams all over, different areas experience pain seemingly without any warning or pattern, before the war moves to a new capture point. 

Sure, maybe that’s a weird-as-fuck analogy, but it’s all he has. 

The only certainty in Scout’s mind is that he is at RED base right now… probably. He clings to the familiarity of that scenario… it’s all he can do to stay in the moment. 

Red, Blue, battle, team, win, lose, war… game. The words mean everything and nothing.

 

There is no equilibrium, up and down are utterly subjective for the moment, but he doesn’t want to open his eyes and find out which is which. It seems so superfluous, so… unhelpful, to be aware of. All he knows is that his body shivers, aching and numb in odd little bursts that seemed designed to undermine his tenuous grip on reality.

But he could not sleep. It eluded him, any and all rest that might bring a moment’s peace… held so far out of reach that he could just  _ cry _ , if that were still an option.

 

And then, something changes. 

  
  


At first, it feels imagined, like the phantom fingers that had held fast his throat earlier in the evening. The ones that dredged up one of his single worst memories, and saw the runner strike the Doctor, even though the man had only tried to help. 

He hadn’t meant it…    
  
Medic… so angry… 

 

He didn’t mean to hurt the doctor…

  
  


Before he could concentrate on the thought, the memory... it happened again. Someone… touched him. And he felt his heartbeat accelerate in panic, as fingers brushed against shoulder, cheek, wrist, and finally, throat. He jerks back at the last tentative touch, not wanting to have to think about  _ That Time _ again.

 

They said something, but it didn’t feel like it was for him; perhaps the other voices were sharing amongst themselves. That sounded like a thing they would do, right?    
He is aware of something clamping firmly about his shoulder, a solid something to focus on, even as it causes overstressed senses to go on alert. 

Why couldn’t he open his eyes and see who,  _ or what _ , it was? 

Why was that so hard all of a sudden?

 

The pressure decreases, as if they thought he wanted them away… as if they intended to leave; and he flails out, with an odd  _ almost-word _ of a cry. He  _ wanted _ them to stay, he didn’t want to be alone in this. Alone in the dark and unable to communicate. 

  
  


Someone shouts in alarm, as he realises he’s struck something.    
Had he done it again? He hadn’t meant to… you know, _ strike them _ ; Scout just wanted them to stay, and couldn’t think of how else to tell these soft-voiced beings that. Especially as the cry from a moment ago refuses to make a repeat performance; his throat has closed for good or ill. Hah, probably because he was, ill that is. It was an oddly amusing thought.    
Still, no matter how much Scout feels like he wants to scream and beg them to remain here; there is nothing emanating from his ravaged throat. And worst of all, the hand is gone… his one anchor had abandoned him. 

It feels like an eternity before something else happens, and he Bostonian is aware of every passing second in the void. In a way you might never put properly into words; like the first time you experience respawn, and you find there can be no true description of the sensation in anything as crude as words, it simply  _ is _ . 

 

Every sense is overstimulated, trying to work out where the voices went, even if his eyes refused to open and ears failed to translate the words they had spoken. A muffled whine of alarm escapes as hands return, touching first the pulse of his wrist and then brushes at the one in his throat;  _ the memory _ rises like a tidal wave and threatens to consume him. 

As in many of the recent nightmares he’d had since the team’s reintegration; the ones _ so vivid  _ that they wrenched him from sleep in a cold sweat, screaming for help, and spurring him on to seek out even the most rudimentary form of comfort. Funnily enough, Scout always seemed to end up in the Infirmary perched on a cot, or sitting in the soft armchair in Medic’s room; shaking and muttering gibberish as the memory faded slowly. The German physician always just sighed, wrapped the runner in a blanket, and provided him with a myriad of reassurances in a soothing tone. Sometimes the intervention was nothing more than the calming repetition of ‘ _ all is vell und you are safe, hase _ ’, along with a cup of some of the best hot cocoa the Scout had ever had; but it worked miracles. He never remembered falling asleep again after a nightmare, only what happened afterwards; when he’d wake up in his own bed the next morning, the rest of the team none the wiser of the previous night’s incidents.    
Perhaps it did not show, but Scout had always been grateful for that.

 

The memory, so recent, etched so deeply on his mind, made him shudder once more. He would quite literally pay just about anything to erase it completely… to remove the sick flashes of little things that seemed to make it all the more realistic. The taste of dusty air heavy in his mouth, the groan of a wooden floor... that suddenly wasn’t, and the strong certainty of a rope looped about his neck, holding fast when his beloved Miss Pauling grew distracted in her attempts to save his life.

 

“ _ Nnngg...ooooh… nnnnnoooo… _ ” he manages, using what little energy he had left to exert enough control over his aching arms, in order to shove the intruding person away. “ _ Nnnnooo… pl-...ss… _ ” 

  
  


“Crikey!” comes the startled response, and the runner cannot make hide nor hair of what it was supposed to mean. Only that the figure is close by still, hovering and uncertain what to do. Scout cannot really give them any suggestions, as he did not know himself. Nor could he think of himself as a singular being, at the moment… he was just a group of loosely connected aches and pains, extremes wrapped in confusion and left to suffer. 

 

There’s someone else there too, he thinks; their voice is different but… he thinks he knows it. He can’t understand the words, exactly, but the tone is low and soothing; full of familiar sounds that might be phrases of comfort and explanation. It feels like they’re trying to tell him something, but it just doesn’t… translate. 

 

But… most importantly, it feels  _ safe _ . He wraps the cadence about his mind, almost like a physical thing, to block out  _ The Memory _ … and it seems to work. 

 

He tries to focus on them, he does. It’s a lot harder than he initially thought it would be, but they are patient. Up is down, the sun is cold, and his throat burns even as he struggles to make some verbal acknowledgement that he can sorta hear them. Can understand they are helping… but his mouth and brain are not on speaking terms. 

 

And then someone is dabbing something cold on his lips… it’s cool and wonderful on the chapped flesh, with small dribbles of liquid seeping through. Not a lot, not enough to truly quench the burning in his throat, but even this taste of rain on the parched desert of his dry mouth is a blessing. It is appreciated, and he wants to say so… but all that comes out is a slurred, ‘ _ Thah...kssss _ ’. 

 

“No problem kiddo,” sighs the voice, taking away the cool-wet thing, much to Scout’s distress. He knew that voice, he knew… knew who it belonged… to… why couldn’t… he think… of the… name?

 

“Kid, ya’in there?” they queried again, gently touching his shoulder. Then more vigorously, “C’mon Son, open those baby blues… we need ya ta stay with us.”

 

The hands that began to shake him were broad, and the voice familiar; but he couldn’t place them. His aching body protested the treatment, but the dribble of water seemed to be just what he had needed to finally feel the call of sleep. They were growing more frantic, and he… he really did want to respond, but… it was just so much easier to let himself drift off into the welcoming void of dreamless rest. 

 

So he did.

 

~)0(~

  
  


Relentless banging jerked Medic back to something approaching consciousness. He shuffled upright, mind foggy and body aching from where he had fallen asleep over his desk… in what was possibly the worst possible position for someone his age. Ach, so much paperwork!

 

Donning his most scathing expression, Medic wrenches the Infirmary door open. “It is four in zhe  _ verdammt _ morning, vhy zhe hell are you here?” he shouts, glaring daggers at the unexpected form of Sniper. The sharpshooter seemed oddly flustered, and had a welt on his neck that looked suspiciously like he’d taken a blow there, possibly due to a delirious teammate.

 

Medic immediately knew why he was there, but let Sniper explain the situation anyway.

 

“It’s Scout, mate. Looks like he’s gotten worse in the last little bit and Truckie said he’s real worried about the ankle-biter. Kid can’t seem to open his eyes or stay with us for more than a minute or two at a time… most of that is this weird strangled screaming, or trying to give you a good old shot to the chops.” Sniper grinned a little at that. “Oh, yeah, and Engie said the kid’s a lot hotter that anyone has a right to be… said he could feel the heat through his Gunslinger. Which I thought was impossible, but you never know with Truckie.” 

 

“One moment,” Medic says, striding across the room for his bag; which had been dumped unceremoniously on the floor when the doctor had stormed in hours ago. “Yes, I seem to have everything I need, lead zhe vay, Herr Sniper.” 

 

“You sure it’s just a cold, mate? Just seems to me like he’s gotten pretty bad real fast.” Sniper asked in his unobtrusive way. They’d never been overly close before…  _ the whole Classics nonsense _ … and Medic dragging the man back from the dead had not improved relations overmuch. Still, he was less than totally indifferent towards the German, so there was that.

 

“Yes, vhatever zhis is, it has acted far more rapidly zhan anticipated.” Medic conceded, musing aloud. “But zhen, ve are not normal men… und it vould not surprise me if the rapid acceleration of vhatever he has contracted vas in some vay linked to zhe fact his blood is most likely more zhan half  _ BONK! _ at zhis point.” 

 

Sniper huffed out an almost-laugh in response, more an acknowledgement, if anything. Medic was delighted, even if he hadn’t really been joking all that much; he was quite concerned with the youngest member’s continuous utilisation of that radioactive drink. It would be no great shock to anyone if it was altering the Scouts on a biomolecular level. 

 

Reaching the room changed everything, however. The almost-companionable dynamic Medic had been sharing with Sniper was immediately crushed underneath the sudden realisation that pretty much the entirety of RED team was now crammed in or about the medium-sized Scout Class quarters. Those who did not quite fit, or had retreated to avoid becoming an accidental casualty, littered the hallway outside. The whole scenario sent Medic’s heart hammering wildly within the confines of his chest. 

Many of the mercenaries present still harboured perfectly logical grudges against him, considering the whole situation with the Classics had been resolved not even three months prior; and even those who deigned to look past it, in the name of group cohesion, were still somewhat cagey about interacting with the good doctor. Holiday periods and feasts excluded, obviously, as both Thanksgiving and Smissmas had been delightful events where hatchets had been buried so that all may enjoy the celebrations.

 

The only problem… was that many of the mercenaries had recalled  _ where _ , exactly, they’d buried them. Medic could see it in their faces as he entered, the brief flicker of mistrust that spoke volumes; he was not now, nor may never be, forgiven his transgressions. A fair call, from an objective perspective on the situation… but it still hurt Medic deeply to be so starkly  alone in a room full of people he once considered family.

Individually he could bear their sullen stares and simmering ire, accept their curses and comments regarding his temporary defection as part of the road to reconciliation. There was time to hear them out, let them vent and talk them through it; but in a group, such as this, he held no chance. 

A cold, clammy sweat broke out over the doctor’s entire body; though outwardly he managed to maintain some degree of his usual calm and collected persona. Though perhaps not as well as he had first anticipated; for Sniper, who always seemed to just know when someone was distressed, put a companionable hand to Medic’s back and steered the other through the crowd. 

The others parted, silent as tombstones, but unlikely to stonewall this ‘home visit’ as it were, with the stoic sharpshooter standing guard. Of all those gathered, it could be said that Sniper had the greatest claim to mistrusting Medic; but if he chose to vouch for him, then no one on RED would contest it. 

 

Slightly reassured, Medic found it possible to focus on the patient before him...  _ and his hovering Texan guardian _ . 

Engineer had taken a real shine to both the Pyro and Scout when they’d all originally arrived. Liked to think of himself as some degree of father figure towards the pair; so when one of them went down for one reason or another, he was always there to throw down a dispenser to heal what ailed them, offer words of encouragement to keep going, or help them get a revenge kill. Engie tended to be a versatile paternal figure with more patience than most; he was perfect for the role he’d adopted.

In anycase, it was no great surprise to anyone that the builder had placed himself by the bedside of the team’s youngest member; monitoring Scout’s every breath and twitch like some sort of living medical monitor. _ Although _ , Medic himself had had a… well, a  _ hand _ , in helping Engineer affix his Gunslinger; a piece of technology for which the specifications were both impressive and utterly ambiguous. There was a very real chance that the metallic hand currently holding a concerningly limp, bandaged wrist as if it was made of glass, was taking an accurate reading of the runner’s resting pulse and oxygen saturations in real time. 

 

The silence was beginning to press, as Medic tried to perform a visual assessment of Scout; mentally comparing current observations with those he had taken earlier in the night. Indeed, the lack of proper response to stimuli was of concern, and the majority of symptoms appeared to have increased in severity over the previous hours. The illness seemed to be acting rapidly, though for all his medical knowledge, Medic could not think of what this could be outside of a rather virulent strain of a cold or flu. 

Those sorts of everyday infections tended to breed like wildfire in cities, after all; every person who contracted it mutating the disease to a degree before passing it on. Children, of course, were the most frequent carriers of the pathogens; therefore Medic was feeling quite confident in the prognosis, given the information the runner had imparted before their rather unfortunate encounter ended.

 

“Vhen did you first notice he vas in zhis state?” he enquired aloud, moving closer slowly, so as not to raise anyone’s hackles. “Or, I should ask, vas he conscious or coherent vhen you first saw to him… how long ago did zhis unresponsiveness start?”

 

“Uh… ah reckon it was about ten or eleven when ah came ta look in on him again after ya checked the boy over,” Engie answered, goggles fixed on Medic’s every movement. “He seemed a bit shaky, real tired and the like, but he was talkin’ a little. Said his throat was bad, but didn’t wanna be touched, and ah can respect that.”

 

Medic nods, both in affirmation and as a polite means of requesting that Engineer continue speaking. There’s a pause.

 

“He did say he wanted me ta tell ya he was right sorry about hittin’ ya, made me promise ta say it if ya came back and he’d finally gone ta sleep. Thought about comin’ ta getcha then, so he could at least hear me say it, might help him settle down and all, but ah couldn’t leave him. Didn’t wanna be left alone, see?” Engineer tossed a meaningful glare over his shoulder. “ _ And ain’t none’a ya gonna hold that against him when he’s better, ya hear? _ ”

 

After everything the team had been through, it was doubtful anyone would be callous enough to mock a teammate for finding comfort in the presence of another living being when they were unwell. Though many had a feeling it might be more aimed at the Spy, who had a tendency to prod each mercenary’s weak points when he felt rankled, or was just exceptionally bored and ready to start drama to relieve the doldrum of it all. 

 

“Alrighty then, now that’s settled.” Engie turns back to face the Doctor. “About an hour back aways, me’n’Stretch thought he’d dropped off ta sleep finally. We were gonna switch out, so he wasn’t alone but ah could get some shuteye… when Scooter starts shaking worse than before, mumbling and the like, and we realise he ain’t asleep… just can’t open his eyes. Tried to talk ta him, calm the little fella down, but then he clocked Sniper one… and went real still.”

 

Medic was nodding, half-listening to Engineer and focusing on the rabbit-fast heartbeat under his stethoscope; the crackle was still there, but perhaps not as severe as earlier. Satisfied, he takes the runner’s hand, and pinches him. There was a full second where he thought the Texan was going to lay him out for the movement… but it passed, as the doctor tutted worriedly. There had been a slight flinch, but it was very weak. 

  
  


“What’s the prognosis, doc?” prods the inventor, after Medic seems disinclined to elaborate on the purpose of his tutting. 

 

For his part, Medic starts somewhat, as if he’d forgotten there were other people present. “Oh, yes.  Vell, apart from zhe fact he did not respond properly to zhe external stimulus of pain… it is also apparent zhat Scout is somewhat dehydrated, given the lack of elasticity in his skin. Und, it vould most likely not be far off zhe mark to suggest he may not have eaten in approximately zhe same amount of time, given his sore zhroat. Neither of vhich vill be helping him.” 

“You might be right there, mate. Truckie and I got a little bit of fluid in the ankle-biter earlier with the old wet-cottonball trick, but it didn’t sound like he was able to do anything even close to swallowing with a throat that scorched.” Sniper adds in his no-nonsense manner, quietly watching the physician lift one of Scout’s eyelids to peer in.

 

“ _ Mmmyes, at least zhere seems to be some dilation occurring in zhe pupils… _ ” Medic mutters to himself, snapping the penlight off as he straightens. “Indeed, Herr Sniper. I zhink it vould be best if he is moved to zhe infirmary so I can start some intravenous fluid und do further tests to see vhat else can be done to hasten zhe virus’ egress from our resident Scout. I vould caution you to perhaps consider laundering your attire and showering, to prevent any spread of infection. Und, could someone tell…  _ Her _ …  zhat Scout vill not be able to attend any match in zhe foreseeable future, should Blu be returned in zhe next veek or so?”

 

“Of course, docteur.” Spy answered, materialising far closer to the bed than anyone would have assumed him to be. For once, the man does not take out a cigarette to smoke; clearly having heard and understood Medic’s warnings pertaining to potential contagion. 

 

“ _ Danke _ , Herr Spy.” he nods in acknowledgement, and turns to the problem of transporting Scout. Of course, he could carry him without undue difficulty… the medigun’s _ pack _ weighed more than the runner ever could soaking wet! But then he would have to leave the boy alone in order to retrieve his medical bag, and-...

 

“Doktor, I vould be happy to carry small Scout to infirmary for you.” Heavy offers, resolving the problem, and acting as if this wasn’t the first time they had exchanged more than a fleeting verbal exchange since being back at RED base. The Russian mountain of a man moved over to the small bed, slipping his hands under the ashen runner and lifting him with all the care one would take with a baby, or a puppy. 

To be so large, to have such  _ power _ and yet be so kind, so gentle and caring… it was one of the many reasons that Medic had loved the man. Well,  _ before _ everything happened. Heavy’s curtness held more weight than that of the other members of their team, for the ‘ _ good doktor _ ’s betrayal had struck on many personal levels. Medic understood, and he bore the weight of such a  burden silently.

  
  


Even if he, in turn, had felt utterly betrayed and empty when the team had disbanded… and Heavy had made no move or mention to have Medic come with him. After all those years together, as teammates, friends… more. Oh so much more. 

Just _ left  _ him alone… desperate for companionship, and vulnerable; it was small wonder that he had immediately leapt upon the nearest offer of employment in a team. No matter how questionable their goals… it was  _ work _ , mindless experimentation to drown himself in. Even if it came at the cost of his dignity, personal safety, and the trust of his former teammates.

But now was not the time, nor place, to allow such sentiments surface. Medic cleared his throat and anchored himself to the current moment by fixing his gaze on the hulking figure of Heavy, holding his exact opposite more delicately than anyone who did not know the Russian would ever think to credit him as capable of. Such an amusing contrast, under any circumstances but these.

  
  


“You have my thanks, Mish-...  _ Herr Heavy _ .  _ Danke _ . Let me grab my zhings und I vill precede you to open zhe infirmary door…” Medic pauses as he clasps the bag shut, turning to address the rest of the room. “Und everyone else? I vill let you know in zhe morning vhat is happening vith zhe  _ junge _ , or sooner should something change drastically, zhough I do not feel zhat is a distinct possibility in zhis case. Rest assured, from vhat he told me, it is most likely just an unintended Smissmas present from one of his nieces; for vhich rest, food und some fluids are zhe answer.”

  
  


There was grumbling at the lack of anything concrete, but not even Soldier had anything to say regarding the matter, so Medic decided now was the best time to take his leave of the room. Heavy followed behind at an even pace, cradling the runner carefully, as he had no doubt done for stubborn ill sisters in the past. 

 

Neither man said anything; the only sound filling the corridor was the soft, wheezy rasp of Scout’s breathing. 

And when it stuttered slightly, both men unobtrusively picked up their pace; urgent footfalls echoing throughout the seemingly never-ending corridors of the base complex. 

  
~)0(~


	4. See You Later, Amputator

His eyes  _ burned _ from lack of sleep, but still the Medic clung  stubbornly to consciousness. Somewhere outside a bird trilled as the next day dawned; the newly-risen sun sending _ far too bright  _ rays through slatted blinds, no matter how vulgarly the medical man mentally cursed out the fiery ball he had come to loathe in the last hour or so. Soon, he would need to switch the saline drip to a new bag, and check the runner’s vitals once more; despite how leaden his limbs felt. 

 

He would not fail Scout in providing the most excellent care possible. For one, it was quite literally his  _ duty _ , his  _ role _ on the team as a Support member… and yet, that was, in truth, not the predominant reason he was doing this. Certainly, the relationships with his teammates were fractured, some perhaps irreparably; but he still cared for them, no matter their reciprocal ideologies as to his character. And of all the mercenaries, Scout had been first to bridge the gap with his incessant, oft-overbearing degree of affection… thereby forcing all the others to accept Medic had returned, or have their ears talked off.

 

Scout seemed to be responding somewhat, now that he was not quite so dehydrated as the night before; but it would be touch-and-go until the speedy little  _ kind _ awoke and could verbalise, or at least gesture, to the areas of greatest discomfort. Then Medic could do what he did best, and alleviate suffering… and if, perhaps, he was testing out some new formulas for analgesic lozenges in the process, then so be it. Of course, he hoped they would help… but could not be completely certain until they had been tried by a human subject. 

  
  


_ Gott im himmel _ would he sell at least  _ one _ of the souls in his possession for the chance to take a nap! 

Or at least, the chance to shower and eat something filling; given he had been forced to abandon his dinner the night before, and nothing in the Infirmary fridge could be considered ‘edible’ unless your tastes ran toward the more obscene delicacies. Besides, it’s not as if he can cook a mega-baboon heart on the small bunsen burner in the room, that would be ludicrous!

 

One of his hands was trapped in the awful crux between numb and searing discomfort, thereby forcing the medical man’s bleary attention to focus on the appendage. He makes a soft, questioning sound of confusion as he realises the reason for the mild pain is that the doctor has been holding onto one of the ice-packs for Scout; something he’d removed more than half an hour ago, when the runner’s temperature finally began to subside. Without a word, he drops it to the floor and begins to shake his hand to shock some feeling back into the appendage. 

Then, with a  frown, Medic decides to quickly check that perhaps he hadn’t over-chilled the resident mercenary child;  _ utilising the hand he could still feel _ , naturally. Satisfyingly, Scout felt somewhat warm to the touch, but nothing too alarming, which was right where the doctor wanted him. 

 

The fever-flush was still bright in the boy’s cheeks, but not so concerningly as before. Indeed, Medic allowed himself a brief moment to feel uncharacteristically optimistic about the whole situation. Certainly Scout was not out of the woods, but he seemed markedly improved, which was always a valid cause for elation. A win, at last, for the German physician.

With a glance at the nearly-depleted bag of saline, Medic decides it would be prudent to switch it out swiftly; making a conscious effort not to let out too loud a groan as tired, stiff muscles and joints protested having remained still so long. Now cruelly forced to perform such a delicate, intricate task on short-notice.

His whole body  _ ached _ , begging for rest; but he could not,  _ would not  _ give in to such a base urge, until he was quite certain the Scout would be safe in his absence. 

 

Thankfully, long years of working nightshifts had ingrained certain processes in his muscle memory; he could practically switch the IV bag blindfolded, at this point. Unfortunately this rather impressive ability was hampered by the fact his arms weighed more than a cache of australium at this point. Medic swiftly grew frustrated at the ridiculousness of his fumbling fingers failing to adequately find purchase on bag or tube; clenching them into shaking fists to avoid screaming and waking his patient. 

 

How had it all come down to this?

He was a renowned, feared mercenary medic who healed allies in a heartbeat, stole souls and slaughtered targets with a dashing smile. The mere sound of him unsheathing his bonesaw was enough to make even the most bloodthirsty men tremble in fear; the sight of it, sent them into paroxysms of terror. There as a good reason he could never return to his own country, after all; and that was a predominant part of it. With the whole ‘ _ mercilessly exterminating those who had wronged him _ ’ coming in as a vague second place on the list of reasons. As it turns out, corrupt or otherwise, authorities tended to take a rather  _ dim view  _ of stealing skeletons from the living.

 

Even if  _ Herr Bones _ , who was propped in a far corner of the Infirmary, really  _ livened up the place _ . So to speak.

  
  


And yet… for all this, here he stood. An exhausted old man with trembling hands, a parched throat, and a body rebelling against him as it fought for the rest he denied it; failing to perform the most basic feat of his profession, something he managed on his first try, as an intern all those many years before. The sheer gall of the universe to reduce him to  _ this _ ! The absolute  _ audacity _ of the cosmos!

 

But then, he supposed it was fitting, in a way. Atonement was rarely in a form of one’s own choosing; nor was it pleasant for the penitent involved. Honestly, it was most often the  _ opposite _ .

Medic gave a wry smile to no one in particular, and took a breath; exhaling shakily, centering what little patience he had preserved over the past few hours, and tried again. His hands shook, but he persevered; trying again when he failed to grab hold of the item, and again after that. It was then it occurred to the medical man to squint, which provided unto him the epiphany that he was not wearing his glasses and therefore,  _ of course _ he could not make vision and physical object align correctly.

 

He would have laughed aloud at himself, disoriented and disjointed from the lack of sleep and normally ever-present visual aids, if he knew it would not most likely awaken his patient. Instead, Medic allowed himself an amused huff of air, and moved over to the desk in order to prod about until he found-...  _ ah, there! _

The world returned to high definition once more, and it was startling to realise how far gone he must be to have not even had an inkling that something was incorrect, before. He blinks, and then does so again a tad more forcefully, trying to stave off the desire to just sink to the floor and nap a moment. How _ tempting _ … and yet, how…  _ counterproductive _ . 

 

“ _ Nein, _ stay avake you silly old fool…” he mutters to himself, casting about for the forgotten replacement bag of fluids. In less time than it takes his tired eyes to blink, he has finished switching out the items and is in the process of double-checking the line’s flowrate is correctly metered. 

Scout twitches a little, burbling something that sounded half like an apology and something vaguely about chicken, but ultimately relaxes again. This time, Medic does quirk a smile; both at a minor procedure well-done, and also at the discovery that Scout talks in his sleep. Not even unconsciousness or illness could silence the child. 

  
  


Earlier in the evening, after he had managed to assure Heavy that they would be fine, and the Russian could go and rest if he wished; he had finally sat down beside the bed, and just watched the _ junge _ . Eyes roving over the runner’s chest in reassurance that the earlier stutter had finally begun to even out; hands periodically checking pulse and temperature. But predominantly, playing the role of a silent observer to a patient who would not,  _ could not _ , be still. 

At first, Scout had squirmed instinctively in reaction to the coldbricks being utilised to lower his outrageous temperature. Medic had wished to place him in an icebath, but there were too many factors that could go wrong under the circumstances; such as how humans tended to seize when their core temperatures exceeded certain parameters too swiftly. But eventually, the runner had calmed, as had the outrageous fever he was sporting; and the restless agitation that covered the Scout seemed to slide into actual rest, even if it was a fitful one.

 

And then he started to  _ talk _ . Oh, it was not all distinct, or even language sometimes… just snippets, statements, half-sentences that made little sense when strung together. Occasionally Scout would whine or make a sound of displeasure at his circumstances, and Medic would check to see if he had returned to consciousness one more, only to find the boy wholly asleep still. 

 

It was endearing, in its own way. Far more positive a situation than that which the boy had been as they’d entered the Infirmary; Scout entirely limp, burning hot, and unable to cling to the waking world no matter how hard he tried; so uncomfortably vulnerable in the arms of the over-protective Heavy. 

Medic was relieved that this had not devolved into something far more serious, as things in his life tended to do; he was quite fond of the speedy little  _ hase _ , and could not bear to have such a young life slip through his fingers. It could have, though. The thought replayed in his mind all those many hours of wakefulness, jolting him to awareness like a thunderbolt of clarity, and keeping him alert for any change or sign of deterioration.

Though it never came.

  
  


Archimedes nearly startled Medic to death, as he dropped onto the human’s shoulder without due warning. It took a considerable amount of effort to hold in the scream that nearly escaped as the German’s frazzled nerves were tested by this surprise visit; and yet, he managed, for the sake of his patient. He was a  _ professional _ , after all. 

 

“ _ O-...oho, you sneaky bird, you _ !” he admonished Archimedes fondly, “Scaring me like zhat after zhe night I’ve had… I should take avay your pretty-bird mirror for a veek!”

The dove cocked his head so that one beady little black eye could stare at Medic, as if trying to ascertain whether the human was being serious or not. He added an inquisitive coo, and ruffled all those gloriously fluffy white feathers; for once, blood-free, as Medic had painstakingly captured and bathed all his dear dove darlings over the past week. Starting the new year clean was always a good omen; or so Heavy had once said, during their first Smissmas on base. Perhaps the Russian was simply appalled by how much blood and gore the pristine white feathers could attract and found a way to trick Medic into cleaning his flock...

 

At the thought, Medic let out an involuntary snort, finding the whole situation disproportionately hilarious; which could be put down to either the sleep deprivation, the stress of the last few hours, or the man’s rather messed up sense of humour. Which was, at best, impossible to comprehend or predict.

 

Which naturally, of course, happened to be the exact moment someone decided to enter the room; for it was, as fate would have it, the worst possible moment to arrive into such a situation without some degree of context as forewarning. That tended to happen to the Medic rather frequently of late. He had toyed with the idea of having ‘ _ I can explain _ ’ tattooed on his forehead in several languages, to expedite such circumstances.

  
  


The Texan clears his throat, as if to say something, and stops short. Medic cannot see the man’s eyes from beneath those ever-present goggles, but he can imagine what the builder was thinking as he surveyed the scene. Of course… from the Engineer’s perspective he’d walked in on a rather dishevelled looking Medic, who was apparently giggling hysterically at his bird, looming over a mumbling Scout; the latter of whom, at least, appeared to look a tad better than the night before -when the runner was playing  _ ding-dong-ditch _ with the Grim Reaper.

 

They stare at each other for a long, long moment; inventor and practitioner equally surprised by the other’s presence, unable to break the stillness filling the room between them. Until, finally, one of the other doves decides to take matters into their own wings; with Socrates landing on Engie’s hardhat, decisively, and settling down on the slippery surface. 

Medic finds himself on the verge of giggling once more; unable to hold it back, considering the provided visual delight of a stern, stout Texan all riled up and ready to lecture...and the poofy bird that has settled atop his headwear. He digs short fingernails into his palm to keep the sound inside, sensing it would not endear himself to the other man under the circumstances.

 

It was Engie who broke the silence first, by clearing his throat. “Is this, uh… a bad time, Doc?” he asks, straight to the point and goggle lenses fixed on the German’s face.

 

Likewise, Medic shoves down the impulse to laugh and clears his throat. “It… it is a good time, Herr Engineer. I do… apologise for you having to see me like zhis, I do not…” he trails off, vaguely, uncertain how the sentence ended and not much caring for it anyway.

 

The hard expression on the Texan’s face melts a little; Engie, oddly enough for a man who delighted in the many murders he managed to purvey via sentry each match, was never able to hold onto anger against someone he perceived as suffering or vulnerable. It’s why he never got too angry with Pyro for doodling on his blueprints; or lost his temper at Demo, when the man ‘borrowed’ a new invention to test how well it handled explosives. The latter had different demons than the former, but Engineer seemed to sense it somehow and always had time for the team if they needed to talk. 

  
  


“Ah… Ah reckon ya in mighty need of a nap, there Doc… how about you go and rest up for a minute, whilst ah keep an eye on Scoot for ya?” he suggests softly, in a tone that Medic hasn’t heard him use since before the disbanding of RED and all of the subsequent incidents.

 

He made it sound so tempting… just a quick rest of his eyes, and everything would be okay. Engie would not allow any degree of harm to come to Scout whilst Medic slept, of course not; but… but he couldn’t do it. He couldn’t… take that risk. 

“I-... I…  _ nein _ Herr Engineer...  _ danke _ , but I cannot-...” he falters, mind going oddly blank as he sifted for the correct words in any of the many languages he knew, e _ ven though it felt oddly like trying to find correllating puzzle pieces at a yard sale _ , before managing “I must…stay...  _  here _ .” 

 

Yes, that sounded about right. 

...or not. Engie was frowning. That was never a good sign, and especially not if he was already mad at you for some slight or another; much less when the guilt of betraying your team hung so heavily on you. 

 

“Now see here, Doc, ah don’t think ya gettin’ what ah’m sayin’ right now. Just lookin’ at ya, ah’m gonna go right on ahead and guess y’ain’t slept yet, ‘cause ya look like hell.” Engie was using his displeased tone of voice, which never meant anything good for the person it was aimed at; Medic could feel himself trembling with something that was not exhaustion. The inventor continued, “Which is why ya can’t getcha words workin’ right, right now. Meanin’ ya can’t be all that alert, or maybe ya  _ too _ alert, when it comes ta carin’ for Scoot here.”

He was clearly leading somewhere that the German was not quite able to get to, yet. His deductive reasoning tank was stolidly tapping ‘Empty’, and he couldn’t quite work out how to refill it.

 

“So hows’about ya’ll go rest for a minute… and I’ll keep an eye on Scout, here?” the Texan placates. “Wake ya up immediately if anythin’ changes, good or bad, alright?”

 

“ _ Nein. _ ” Medic responds, tone confused and oddly petulant. Scout was HIS patient, and  _ gott im himmel _ , Medic was going to look after him no matter what! He would show them! 

Who was this interloper to intrude on his Infirmary and make demands? 

 

“Now see here, Doc, I-...” Engie tried, but Medic immediately cuts him off.

 

“Please Leave,  _ Herr _ …  _ you _ . All is in…” he pauses, failing to find the right word, and just pointing at his other hand to emphasise the point. Engie kept taking a halfstep back for every stride Medic made his way; trying to keep himself non-confrontational in the face of unexpected adversity.

 

He didn’t notice until the last moment, that he’d been chased out the Infirmary doors. 

Before the bewildered Texan man can even form a rudimentary protest, the German flashes a slightly manic winning smile, bids him “ _ Guten morgen _ ”, and shuts the door in his face. Leaving the Engineer spluttering in surprise and frustration at the slab of wood and wondering just what in tarnation he was going to do about it now.

 

~)0(~

 

By the time breakfast had rolled around, the rest of the team had gathered in the kitchen for an impromptu meeting on how to handle the whole situation. Even the reluctant early riser trio of Sniper, Demo and Heavy had managed to make themselves attend; each downing far more coffee than a human being probably should be capable of containing, before six am. 

 

“Ah’m just sayin’ ah’m concerned. Darn near slammed it in my face, when ah went to check if he was alright… looked like he’s been up all night frettin’ over Scoot. An’ ah ain’t ready to forgive him just yet, but… it ain’t right.” Engie summarises his argument for the others, fidgeting with his gunslinger as he did so, because physical tasks always kept the man grounded when emotions were high.

 

“Righto lad.” Demo agrees readily, crunching his way through a second slice of ‘untainted’ toast.  He and Sniper were good pals, but they differed in their opinions on what counted as appropriate breakfast condiments. For example, Demo loved plain toast, and considered the New Zealander to be a heathen of the worst sort for putting something as bitter as vegemite on his morning meal. Even now the man’s one remaining eye flickered back at the lanky man, with mild disgust, as the Kiwi determinedly attempted to imbibe enough coffee to remain conscious. 

 

Sniper, for his part, inclines his head. “So, what’re you thinking of doing about it then, Truckie?” 

They all knew Engineer clearly had some sort of a plan already outlined in that devious little mind of his; it was now a game of teasing it out in a language they can all understand. Soldier was usually the best at this, as he tended to ask a lot more questions than people tended to assume he would, and the Texan would always explain as broadly, patiently and simply as he could. However, the military man had been patrolling the base most of the night to ‘keep the Private safe’, and was not entirely awake enough to be involved in the conversation to that degree.

 

Endearing, but ultimately frustrating.

Pyro was currently attempting to feed the American some sort of overly-sugary cereal, one ‘airplane’ spoonful at a time. And, surprisingly, Solly was allowing it. 

It was a mesmerising sight, if you got suckered into watching. Engineer found himself wasting a good long minute or two on it by complete accident; maybe he hadn’t had a full night’s rest either, they were all worried about the kid.

  
  


“What? Oh, yeah, right. Well, ah was thinkin’ that perhaps it’d be best for both of ‘em if we sent in someone…  _ that can be mighty persuasive _ , even if Medic ain’t inclined to cooperate at first.” Engineer edged about it, definitely not making eye contact with the mercenary in question. The entire room could feel him shift, however, as the sharp intellect caught on to the plan. 

 

Silence seems to stretch and elongate for a long moment, before the human tank lets out a weary sigh and relaxes his posture. “Da, is good plan. Vill be able to talk doktor into rest, or…  _ be more persuasive _ .” Heavy flashes a mildly menacing grin that makes the rest of the room’s occupants damn glad they were not on the receiving end of the Russian’s ‘care’ in this instance.

 

“Y’sure this is fine by you, pardner? ‘Cause I can always make Spah go, if it’s too… y’know, close to home for ya.” Engineer prods, trying to ascertain if he’d crossed a line somewhere and backed the Russian into a corner. Giving the other an out.

 

“Nyet. Have experience, doktor is stubborn when it comes to self, leetle Scout is same… carried both to bed many times when they finally fall asleep in strange place. Is no trouble, Engineer.” Heavy affirms, clearly resolved to this course of action. It was true, of course; he was somehow always able to convince or cajole exhausted teammates to take care of themselves. No one said it aloud, but many suspected it may have been learned through being both big brother, and pseudo-parental figure, to his younger sisters. 

  
  


“Thanks for that, Heavy.” Engie beams tiredly, standing a little taller, like a weight had been lifted. “But don’t hesitate to call for help if Medic, or god-willin’ Scoot, are bein’ right stubborn about taking good care of themselves.”

 

Heavy nods, and says nothing. The Russian deigns to not look entirely perturbed when Pyro begins to offer him cereal… by way of ‘choo-choo train’ spoonfuls. This is not the oddest thing their firebug has tried at the table, and certainly will not be the last… 

 

“Oh, and Spah… ‘cause I know you’re lurkin’ roundabout these parts, don’t you go interferin’ and rilin’ up the Doc before Heavy gets a chance to talk to him, y’hear?” the Texan scolds, seemingly thin air. 

 

In the silence following the statement, they can hear the flick-click-hiss of a cigarette lighter being utilised… an inhalation, exhalation, and then an answering, “ _ Oui, labourer _ .” 

 

That seemed to be all Engie was looking for, as he actually beams, clapping his hands together. “All righty then, now that’s settled, everyone get about their business… and no more coffee for you three or ya’ll gonna phase clear through into another dimension, alright?”

 

Demo, Heavy and Sniper, suitably chastised, nod; and only go back to sipping their caffeinated beverages when they were sure Engie had exited the room for good. Didn’t want to go hurting the feelings of a man who could program the toaster to assassinate you, now. 

  
  


~)0(~

 

His eyes are wide in startlement at the hulking silhouette through the Infirmary’s internal windows. They are frosted, looking out into the waiting room, but he knows that figure anywhere.

 

“ _ Scheisse _ !” he splutters, gritting his teeth.  _ Of course _ they would send  _ Mish _ -.... Heavy, of course! Those cruel, sick, twisted mercenaries knew exactly who would be most likely to make him-… make him-...  _ ach, what was the word _ ? To make-do? 

Ah,  _ comply _ . Yes, to make him  _ comply _ with their odd notions of healthy habits… as if they all held doctorates in the medical sciences, hah!

 

It was certainly amusing, to say the least… and utterly terrifying also. Which was ridiculous.

  
  


“Nnngh.” Scout offered, helpfully, as Medic’s dwindling focus snapped back to his patient. He was still clearly in the throes of this unfortunate illness, but since the fever had started to settle earlier that morning, the Bostonian seemed to be mildly better than before. To use a metaphor, the runner was not out of the woods yet… but at least he had clearly rolled up his sleeping bag in preparation to journey home. Or… however that went.

 

Medic’s hands were shaking he was so tired. He was reminded of his hellacious first year of internship once more, all those hours of attending to emergencies in conjunction with the briefest moments of sleep interspersed throughout never-ending shifts… running on the stale buns the kitchen would throw out each evening, and coffee. Whatever could be eaten or imbibed on the move… you took as sustenance. That was a form of self-care, from Medic’s perspective.

  
  


The shadow did not knock, as he assumed; nor did the man it belonged to enter. This was all part of the game, Medic remembered… back when they were teammates, friends, more…  _ Mish _ -.... Heavy had more patience, could out-wait even the most obstinate refusals to cease experimentation and sleep. The German both hated and loved that about the mountainous man; now, more than ever, he detested the trait, for he knew what was going to happen next.

 

Of course, when he was Heavy doing such things to other members of the team, he always found it equal parts endearing and amusing. A glare from the Russian could halt drunken shenanigans from Soldier or Demo, could break apart even the most vicious verbal battle between Spy and Sniper; by presence alone the man could get Pyro to stop setting ‘inside things’ on fire, or make Engineer realise it was time to ‘hit the hay’ after losing track of the hours while inventing.

But when it came to both the Medic and Scout, things tended to get more intensive. Heavy knew and understood the complex, stubborn personalities of both the mercenaries; could see why they would remain awake beyond normal limitations, and validate their reasons. However, he could also argue that they needed rest and refuelling more than any arbitrary reason they could provide as to why neither of those tasks had been completed. And, if all else failed… the man was built like a shaved bear… one that brooked no argument from his charges.

 

As now, he waited. Patient and ready to act when Medic finally opened the door for him to enter… and Medic would, whether it be five minutes from now or in two hours; Heavy would be there.

 

He was an  _ infuriating _ man.

  
  


Sweat trickled down Medic’s neck as he stared at the door through searing eyes, the shadow so ominous and final that he could not look away. He could feel his willpower draining, dwindling; the confrontation was inevitable, might as well get it over with.

 

With hesitant steps across the neat red and white room, Medic reached the door. His hand paused over the handle, everything he wanted to say jumbling with splashes of fear and uncertainty inside his head until he couldn’t think straight. He was shaking, his head hurt;  _ everything was too much _ …

 

The German physician let out a soft sigh and allowed his head to butt against the door with a quiet thud. He was so tired. But he could not fail his duty, Scout needed him; the  _ team _ finally needed him once more, and he  _ couldn’t _ … 

...couldn’t...

 

With a metallic whisper, he felt the doorknob shifting under his hand of its own volition, and the wood suddenly gave way to air… then to something reassuringly, horrifyingly solid. It was not the first time Medic had rested his forehead here, with red filling each and every corner of his vision… but it may very well be the last. He fumbles for some sort of apology or excuse, but nothing comes; words are almost beyond him. 

 

That gentle, rumbling tone is soothing as it says, “Come Doktor, you are very tired and must rest.”

 

“ _ Nein _ …” he mumbles petulantly, enjoying the fact that the large hand resting on his shoulder hasn’t been used to fling him across the room just yet. “Patient.”

 

The laugh can be felt more than heard, as it reverberates through the fleshy mountain. “You are stubborn Doktor, but need to sit, eat sandvich Heavy has brought you, and rest. Leetle Scout vill be safe, I vill vatch over, da?”

  
  


He really does want to argue that point, as the hand guides him over to his deskchair, but he can’t think of a good response. A small plate is placed before his blearily focused eyes, and he recognises the sandvich for what it is; a meal miraculously filled with all the power of a medigun’s rays, though none can quite explain how or why. 

 

Medic feels his stomach protest at the hollowness it has been forced to endure, but he says nothing. His mouth is dry, rebelling the very idea of food; no matter how his body is howling for it. Such a strange sensation. 

 

“Come, Doktor… try a leetle bite… or must Heavy feed you like precious birds vith their babies?” Heavy adds in the silence, oddly gentle considering the animosity between them recently. Medic manages a small almost-laugh at the very idea of such a scenario taking place. 

 

Without a word, he manages to convince one of his hands to pick up one of the… oh.

Heavy had cut it into triangles, just like he liked it. For some reason, sandviches in triangles made him think of autopsies, and that was a fun thought! 

He nibbles on it for the longest time, before his body finally feels like it can accept the offering of nourishment... and then Medic is wolfing it down like tomorrow there will be a global famine. What even is dignity? Why bother with it? There was food for the eating!

 

He can only imagine how disgusted Heavy must be to witness such as this, but he just cannot bring himself to stop until the hollow ache was sated. But, as with all good things, the sandvich ended with an empty plate, clean of even the crumbs, and Medic finally feeling more like himself. 

  
  


“ _ Danke _ Heavy, zhat vas just vhat I needed to keep going.” he says, turning languidly to look at the other mercenary. 

 

“Indeed. Now Doktor must have shower, change, and rest. Is important. Vill vatch Scout vhile you do so.” Heavy adds, tone helpful but with an undercurrent of command to it. 

 

“I….” Medic began to argue, and halted himself. It would do nothing for either mercenary, should he contest this point. With a sigh, the German relents. “ _ Ja, Mish- _ ...  _ Herr  _ Heavy, as always you are right. I vill shower, zhen, to alleviate your concerns... but I  _ cannot _ rest no matter how capable you are to caring for zhe  _ hase _ in my absence.” 

 

Medic was so engrossed in the effort of getting upright, finding new attire, that he did not see the indulgent smile on the Heavy’s face. “Da, Doktor… as you say.”

 

~)0(~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was late bc Life. Thanks for all the awesome comments & reviews you've left so far, they were highly motivational.   
> Let me know how you feel about the story and characterisations.

**Author's Note:**

> More chapters to come as they are edited & uploaded; bc AO3 keeps taking all the italics out of things when you try to paste it over.
> 
> Let me know what you think.


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